This Means War
by Lady Silverbird
Summary: We know that Sherlock has a penchant for shooting things when he gets bored. He ends up bored and somehow got his hands onto a dart gun.


**A/N: this is something that my good friend TheDoctor'sStrawberry and I came up with in one of our caffeine- and sugar-fueled talks. She proposed the idea of Sherlock with a dart gun, one thing led to another….voila! Read, review, and as always, please enjoy!**

* * *

John made his way up the 17 steps into his flat of 221B Baker Street, wondering if Sherlock had cracked the case without even moving from his armchair—which he probably had. But as he pushed open the door into the familiar flat, he saw that the chair was vacant. There was nobody in the flat at all. "Sherlock?" he called, looking around. He knew that the self-proclaimed sociopath hadn't left because Sherlock's shoes and Belstaff coat were both still there, as was his scarf. He couldn't imagine the man was asleep because Sherlock just didn't sleep. John poked his head into one bedroom; no Sherlock. Though he couldn't imagine why Sherlock would be in _John's_ bedroom, it was still a possibility, so he glanced into his own room. Again, no Sherlock. John walked back out and stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips as he looked around the flat. "Alright, Sherlock, where are you? Come out where I can see you!" he said, looking around. Perhaps the genius was trying an experiment in camouflage or something else bizarre.

_Pft-pft-pft!_

John let out a strangled noise as he felt the sting of three small, sharp things digging into his back. He whirled around to locate the source-and then beat said source into putty-but he couldn't see anything. Groping behind him with one arm, he grasped one of the sharp things and pulled it out, holding it up for inspection: a dart, not unlike the kind that he would use in a game at the pub, except sharpened to a possibly lethal point. "Sherlock, what the hell is this?!" he demanded, reaching around to pull out the other two darts and throw them on the table. "I feel like an idiot talking to myself, get your skinny arse out here!" he shouted when there was no reply.

_Pft!_

Another dart stuck in his arm, and John let out a string of profanities that would make his mum faint. Accompanying this dart, however, was the lilting, velvety baritone that he'd come to know so well. "Your weapon is on the chair, John. Arm yourself."

"What? Sherlock, get out here where I can see you!" John snapped angrily, not at all amused by this little 'experiment'.

"Arm yourself, John. I won't say it again," Sherlock murmured; this time, John turned and saw the source of the voice. The genius was crouched down behind their couch in a most ridiculous attempt at a sniper crouch, wearing clear glasses like those found at a shooting range, holding what appeared to be a paintball gun.

The army doctor turned and looked; sure enough, there was another paintball gun sitting in his armchair, waiting to be used. He let out a long sigh, hands on his hips. He felt like a mother dealing with the most insufferable child. "Sherlock, I do not know what you are doing, nor do I know why you're doing it, but I am not going to indulge your madness."

"I'm not mad, Mummy had me tested as a child," protested Sherlock, firing another round of darts. This time, John saw the familiar tense in the muscles of his arm and shoulder; the soldier dropped into a crouch, doing a tuck-and-roll behind his armchair. Two darts stuck in the wall and one bounced off and clattered to the floor.

_Alright. He wants to play games with me? This means war,_ thought John, reaching up and quickly grabbing the other gun. "Alright, Sherlock. Just remember, you asked for this," he called, carefully loading the gun and adjusting his grip on it.

"Then spin the wheel, raggedy man!" cried the younger male.

* * *

An hour and a few hundred darts later, John sat on the parts of the couch not bristling with darts, uploading his blog. "And now we know, don't we, that we don't ever want to challenge a former soldier to a shooting match," he said with all the patience of a mother.

Sherlock was sitting in his armchair pouting and constantly shifting in his seat. After he'd managed to convince John to join into his experiment, he hadn't been able to get another solid hit. The experiment had officially ended when John somehow managed to creep around the other side of the couch and fire several darts into Sherlock's exposed backside. He shifted, adjusting his seat again; he wouldn't be able to sit comfortably for at least three days now, highly unfortunate given how much time Sherlock spent sitting and thinking.

"Yoo-hoo!" called Mrs. Hudson, lightly knocking on the door as she came in. "I heard a bit of a commotion up here and-" She cut off as she took in the furniture and walls, all bristling with enough darts to look as if a porcupine had rubbed against them. With a shake of the head, she folded her arms across her chest. "I am _not_ cleaning this up!" she announced even as she walked into the kitchen to make them both a cuppa tea.


End file.
